


Triptych: Rapture

by Eliza



Category: Boondock Saints (1999), Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-30
Updated: 2003-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-11 12:30:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliza/pseuds/Eliza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rapture: 1 a : a state or experience of being carried away by overwhelming emotion b : a mystical experience in which the spirit is exalted to a knowledge of divine things<br/>         2 : an expression or manifestation of ecstasy or passion</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triptych: Rapture

The road trip seemed like a good idea at the time. For the most part it had been good. But Connor was starting to feel a little restless, odd considering they hadn't slept in the same state two nights in a row. A glance at Murph confirmed a similar edginess. And when his brother started looking for entertainment, there was little doubt that Connor would share in the fun whether he wanted to or not.

Dancing blue eyes met his and half a grin lit up the face more familiar than his own. "I know what you're thinking."

"You're sure of that now."

"Don't be such a killjoy, little brother."

"Little brother?!" The half grin became a full one, and Connor smirked himself as he remembered the phone call that had started this running joke at his expense. "Ma's never given us a straight answer about who came out first, and likely never will, the twisted crone."

"That's my mother you're talking about," Murph said, grinning ever wider while shaking a finger in his brother's face. "Likely she was just too pissed to remember."

Connor raised his glass to meet Murphy's and they both drained their mugs. Fuck, this beer was shite. He was tempted to drag his brother out of this dive and look for a place that served a proper ale even if it had to be one of the overly trendy places that tried to pass for an Irish local this far west of Boston. As he looked at Murphy, leaning with his back against the bar, both elbows resting on the top, Connor decided that they were less likely to become acquainted with Metropolis' finest if they stayed right where there were. He ordered another round, with a couple of shots of whiskey to add some sort of flavour.

The drinks arrived as the door opened, the draft momentarily thinning the hazy air. Connor barely glanced at his change as the new arrival moved into the light near the bar. He was young, but age was hard to judge sometimes, Murph and himself had only recently stopped being carded and they were nearing 30. The arrogance the boy radiated held a truth in it; he had an air of power, a surety in his strength, not just youthful bravado. His physical presence backed it up: tall enough to fill the doorway, broad chest and shoulders, strong legs, large hands. But Connor had seen the fulfilment of the adage "the bigger they are, the harder they fall" too many times to be overly impressed. The beauty that went with the exceptional physique was another issue. Wasn't this how the poets always depicted the heroes? Alabaster brow, coal-black curls, wide, liquid eyes, a mouth that was made to suck... No, that description never made it into parochial school texts.

At the edge of his vision, he could see his brother looking from the boy to him and back again. Then Murphy leaned in so close his head was practically on Connor's shoulder. "You always go for the dark ones," he whispered before moving with insolent ease back to his slouch against the bar.

"You shut the fuck up."

When Connor looked back to the boy, he found his gaze met suspiciously, the smirk that quirked the generous mouth almost ugly. To shy away now would show too much weakness, so Connor kept a bland expression and held the stare until the boy turned away with a derisive snort. "Scotch," he said to the bartender.

"ID," the barman replied flatly.

The paper that the boy put on the bar had a picture on it and the bartender looked at General Grant for a long moment before sweeping it into his pocket as he turned to reach for a bottle. Connor met Murphy's eyes, sharing the sentiment that his brother's twisted lips and slow head shake conveyed -- the boy might be pretty, but he wasn't all that bright.

The barman set a full glass down on the bar. "Three bucks."

The surprise made the boy look ridiculously young. Then the moment passed. "You've already got enough."

"The only thing I got from you tonight was your ID."

Add long arms to that list of physical attributes. Strong too, for the grip on the barman's shirt dragged him half way over the bar so that he could get a really close look at the maniacal grin. "Then you must have noticed the numbers and seen it was my birthday. I deserve one on the house, don't you think?"

Connor felt more than saw the attention of the patrons focus on the scene. The regulars probably didn't treat the bartender all that much better – but an outsider was never allowed the same privilege. Not that the over-grown idiot wouldn't benefit from a good pounding, but Connor wasn't sure which side of the brawl _they_ would end up on. He didn't like the odds. Better to defuse the whole thing.

Murph was already moving, circling around to put the boy between them. Connor held his breath, not sure of what tack his brother was going to take. He let it out carefully at the sight of Murphy's right hand resting softly on the boy's wrist and the sound of Murph using the soothing tone that had always worked wonders on him. "I think that he would have a better chance of answering you if he were allowed to breathe. And since it is your birthday, I'm sure he'll be in a generous mood." As the man was released, Murphy sent a pointed look at the bartender and nodded.

"Sure," said the barman, taking the hint and straightening his shirt. "No harm, no foul. Happy birthday." He pushed the glass toward the boy and backed well out of reach.

The boy picked up the glass and slowly poured the contents on Murphy's boots.

Oh. Shit.

Connor thought he was going to have a moment to centre himself, the duration of an insult – probably about the boy's mother – in which to draw breath. No such luck. Murph launched himself, full body, at the boy. They all ended up tangled on the floor. Murphy's fist was the first limb to be sorted out and Connor found himself flinching at the expected fountain of blood as it connected with the boy's nose. Strangely, the only howl came from Murphy as he shook his hand as if he had hit a wall.

The lunatic grin returned and Connor felt his own stomach flip as Murph flew threw the air to destroy a table at landing. The boy had... tossed him. Fuck. Connor's hand closed around the leg of a barstool, which he brought down on the boy's head as hard as he could while scrambling toward his brother. He pulled a still shaken Murphy to his feet just as the boy rose from the floor. He seemed to be enjoying this far too much and no one in the bar even glanced in their direction any more, except for the bartender who was dialling the phone

With Murph tucked up against him, Connor edged toward the back of the bar and hopefully the back door. The boy moved easily, stalking them as if he had all the time in the world. Jesus fucking Christ, he was playing with them! Murphy was regaining his balance with every step, and as Connor loosened his hold, they turned and ran. As soon as his brother was through the door, Connor slammed it shut, then he flew across the alley as the door seemed to explode back in his face. He couldn't catch his breath, and struggled in vain to move as he was turned over and his back lifted a few inches off the pavement by the hold on the front of his shirt. He opened his eyes to look into that beautiful, frighteningly undamaged face. The boy smirked and said, "It always seems to take badly broken bones for people to figure out that I don't like to be told what to do."

Connor closed his eyes again, hoping that the boy assumed it was to avoid seeing the descending fist with its red-stoned ring. The howl of rage that accompanied the rain of glass and whiskey confirmed that Murphy had managed to get the drop on the boy. Thank God. The relief evaporated as quickly as alcohol when his brother didn't check on him. "That was a horrible waste of very cheap booze," he heard growled from across the alley.

The slow easing of his constricted chest stopped as Connor opened his eyes. Murphy's usually pale skin was bright pink, the result of the hand around his throat holding him against the wall six inches off of the ground. He was clawing at the hand, kicking at whatever else he could reach, yet didn't seem to be doing any damage. The boy wasn't reacting at all, he was staring at his own right hand. Murphy's struggles slowed and Connor suddenly found the ability to move again. "Drop him!" he bellowed as he pressed the muzzle of the silencer into the back of the boy's neck.

Murphy's feet were already touching the pavement. He collapsed back against the wall, coughing, his chest heaving while the boy's own legs completely gave out on him. "What have I done?" the boy whispered.

"What have you done?!" Murph snarled pushing himself upright. "You've almost fuckin' killed me is what you've done!" His voice was unusually rough, and his colour was still high, but Murphy's boundless energy was starting to resurface. For some reason the phrase, "Madder than a wet hen," came to Connor's mind, pushing a breath of relieved laughter to the surface. He put away the gun, but was very willing to sit on the lad if Murphy felt inclined to vent some of that anger.

"I am so sorry."

"He's sorry, he says."

"Well, everything's all right then."

Murphy had almost passed by the bent head when he grabbed the boy's chin. He studied the upturned face for a long moment, and Connor could see concern tempering the anger. "Jesus, man! What have you been flying on?"

The boy seemed about to answer when he pulled out of Murphy's grip and reached toward the base of the wall. He picked up a red stone, likely the one that had been lost from his ring. After looking at it for a long moment, he tightened his fist around it. The laugh that accompanied the motion was a horrible sound, full of pain and bitterness. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He's even taken that comfort away from me."

It was Connor's turn to look between beautiful boy and brother. Murphy's fiery temper was fuelled by a passionate, generous heart and Connor could see his brother finding a place for the boy there. When Murph caught him smiling, Connor said in Irish, "You never could resist the strays."

Murphy settled for countering with a two-fingered gesture as the boy rose to his feet and reclaimed their attention. "I know saying I'm sorry doesn't come close to making up for...." He raised his head from his study of the concrete and looked into Murphy's eyes. And blushed. Oh, fuck. "I'm sorry," the boy said, again, and tried to move past Murphy to the escape down the alley. Connor leaned a hip on a pile of boxes and wiped at the dampness on his upper lip. His hand came away red.

"There's a poor attempt at atonement," Murphy said cheerfully while effectively keeping himself between the boy and his freedom.

"Believe me, leaving is the best thing I can do."

"And you seem very good at it," Connor offered.

"Not good enough," the boy said ruefully and tried again to push his way past Murphy. It seemed a half hearted attempt, not that he didn't want to go but that he was taking extra care not to hurt Murph. Murphy was taking full advantage, herding him further into the alley until the boy seemed to realize what was happening and stopped back peddling. "You got off lightly. Let's not tempt fate, okay?"

"A threat?" Murphy widened his eyes in mock dismay.

Connor couldn't help but add fuel to the fire. "So much for sorry."

"It's not a threat." Oh, the boy had some backbone yet. "It's a warning, a well meaning one. Do yourself a favour and let me go."

Murphy shook his head and smiled. "He's the smart one." The conceited bastard smiled even wider.

"Can't you get the message?!" The boy loomed over Murphy, who was loving every moment of it. "No matter what I do, everyone who gets near me gets hurt."

"Seeing the reaction to a piece of friendly advice, I'm not surprised," Connor muttered loud enough to bring a chuckle from Murphy.

It was the laughter that attracted the anger. "You hit me first!"

"You poured your drink on me!"

Each comment brought them a little bit closer together, Murphy having to tilt his head up a little higher to keep his fierce eyes focussed on the boy's. Connor didn't know how anyone could resist kissing his brother when he looked like that.

"You were being condescending," said the lad.

"I was trying to keep us all from being beaten to a bloody pulp by the rest of the bar. You don't threaten the bar-keep in a place like that."

Taking a couple of steps back, the boy laughed, for real this time, and Connor realized that they really would be fools to simply let this one go on his way. "You've just arrived in Metropolis," he said. It really wasn't a question but Connor nodded in confirmation anyway. "Mind your own business is the city's motto."

"We tend to have some difficulty with that concept," said Connor.

For the first time since the fight ended, the boy turned his full attention to Connor, who became the recipient of the most brilliant smile he'd ever seen. The grin only lasted a moment but the amused expression remained as the boy said, "Me, too."

"Since we are such babes in the woods, how about helping us find a place to stay?" Murphy said, sliding an arm over the boy's shoulder. Connor could see that the lad was unsure as to how to react to Murphy's intrusion, but the uncertainty had possibilities.

Not wanting him to think about it too much, Connor diverted his attention. "We really have just arrived and can't be seen looking like this." His nosebleed had stopped but not before his T-shirt had received a new pattern.

"I would take you back to my place," the boy offered. Christ, Murph, Connor thought, a little bit of subtlety. Don't drool on him. "But I had a fight with the landlord this morning."

"If he's in the hospital then extra company shouldn't matter," teased Murphy.

From the way the lad's face fell and he shifted out of Murphy's reach, the hospital seemed a good possibility. "Just point us in the direction of somewhere that might have hot water," Connor said. He gripped the boy by the nape of the neck, the distance he had put between them had to be breached. "It will be all right, lad."

"You can't know that."

"No. But I can believe it."

"Faith, boyo." Murphy moved in close to wrap his arm over the boy's shoulder again and turned him in the direction of the car. "Faith can give a man wings."

"I'm afraid of heights."

"Oh my God!" Murph looked over his shoulder to Connor limping behind them, lighting up a smoke. "What are we going to do with this one, Connor?"

Connor didn't dare answer.

*****

"That'll kill you, you know."

"Clark, if I manage to live long enough for these things to kill me, I'll be too fucking impressed with myself to care," said Connor before lighting yet another cigarette. After blowing out a lung full of smoke, he looked back at Clark, then scowled. "What?"

"What, what?" said Clark putting on his most innocent face.

"You were smiling at me like I was a kitten with a fucking ball of string." Connor was one of those people who was magnificent when angry. "What?!"

As tempting as it was to continue baiting the Irishman, for the time being Clark had purged his need for unnecessary risk. "You reminded me of someone. Chloe is very fond of making strong, dramatic pronouncements, too. Though she has a better vocabulary."

Connor looked at him through narrowed eyes for a moment before snorting out a breath of a laugh. "Girlfriend?"

Clark shook his head. "Just a good friend." And not the only one he had with a taste for the dramatic. No. Now she was the only one.

He really should go. But Clark stayed leaning against the car, talking to Connor while waiting for his brother Murphy to come back with the key to a room. They had managed introductions on the way to the brothers' car before Clark led them though Metropolis' alleyways on the motorcycle, the one he knew he was going to have to take back to his dad. That's where he should be right now, on the road back to Smallville instead of in a motel parking lot just off the freeway. The place wasn't anything fancy but it was more likely to have hot water than the dives in the neighbourhood around the bar. Both of the brothers were looking worse for wear due completely to his lack of self control, so it was only polite that Clark stay to keep Connor company.

"That's a beautiful piece of machinery," said Connor, eyeing the bike. "A lot of love and patience went into its care."

"It's my dad's." Clark winced at the despair he heard in his own voice.

Connor laughed. "Oh, lad, there are a few things in this world that make homicide justifiable, stealing a man's wheels is one. Don't blame you for not wanting to go home."

Clark knew he was being teased, but the comment salted wounds that hadn't even begun to close. He made an intent study of the stones at his feet. "The bike is just the last of a long list."

"As bad as all that, is it?" Connor said, his accent getting thicker as his voice softened.

"My mom.... There was an accident. It was my fault. The baby.... It was her last chance.... Her only chance."

Even with a difficult topic, it was too comfortable: both of them leaning against the hood, almost touching at the shoulder, Connor taking regular pulls on his cigarette. Clark could feel the curiosity, the unasked questions, and appreciated the fact that they remained that way, giving him the opportunity to pick and choose the ones he wanted to answer. It felt a bit like betrayal, enjoying the feeling of someone else being interested in him and caring enough not to.... Clark couldn't think about Lex right now. And yet he found himself telling Connor other things that he never thought he would tell a friend let alone a stranger.  
"What's it like to have a brother?"

"What's it like not to have one?" Connor replied. "I can't imagine the world without Murph." He crushed the remains of the cigarette into the gravel and met Clark's eyes with a grin. "But don't you dare tell him that."

There it was again, the feeling of connection this man seemed to incite. The brothers had an uncanny ability to anticipate each other's movement, shared looks that made Clark wonder if they shared thoughts as well. He was envious... no, pea-green jealous. But Connor was slowly making Clark believe that he could experience some of that bond, that he could feel what it was like to be part of someone else. Only one other person had ever made him feel that way.

He really, really should go.

"Got it," Murphy called half way back to the car from the office. He tossed the room key in the air and gestured toward the stairs to the second floor. "Grab Connor, Clark."

"What do you mean, 'Grab Connor'?" Connor complained even as he rested heavily against Clark's side, Clark putting a supporting arm around his waist.

Murphy stopped to lean over the stair rail. "I've always got to carry the walking wounded. It's nice having someone else around to do it for a change."

"It's the least I can do," Clark muttered, more to himself than anyone and so was surprised to hear a response.

"If you're looking for penance, Clark, I think we can oblige you."

Something in Connor's voice caught Clark's attention, but the pained expression that he saw as Connor climbed the stairs convinced him that the innuendo had been all in his imagination. It wouldn't be the first time that he had read too much into a simple statement. But the assumption must have been written all over his face, for Murphy snickered from the top of the stairs. "Ice. Buckets of it, man."

"And our bags out of the car," added Connor as they reached the landing. He pulled away from Clark's embrace to search his pockets for the keys and found them just as Murphy opened the door to the room.

Clark took the keys with a profound sense of relief, the exact reason for which eluded him. "Whatever you need me to do. Is there anything else?"

He watched them share a long look, convincing him absolutely that they were telepathic . "He's too young," said Connor. The sneer and soft snort made Murphy's opinion very clear. "You can do without a beer tonight," Connor said with more vehemence than Clark felt was necessary.

"I'll see what I can do," Clark said, determined not to let any excuse get in the way of letting him make up for the damage he had done. He started toward the stairs before they had a chance to dismiss him completely.

"Don't...." Clark turned slowly, certain of what Connor was going to say. "Don't worry about it," Connor said, but his expression held the true and anticipated message: don't hurt anyone. Murphy, on the other hand, was grinning, nodding, and giving him the thumbs up over his brother's shoulder. Two small furrows appeared between Connor's brows for a second before he rounded on his brother, giving him a shove into the room. "You're such a fuckin' idiot!" overrode Murphy's laughter.

Clark continued down the stairs with the certainty that he had missed a large chunk of the conversation. He went to the car first, checking the back seat and eventually finding two black duffle bags in the trunk. They were heavy, too heavy to have just clothes in them. A second of temptation let the X-ray vision focus and Clark had the fleeting impression of an arsenal before he brought his curiosity and his powers under control. They hadn't gone looking for trouble, Clark had shoved it on them with both hands. He wasn't going to make assumptions, even if they were carrying enough fire power to wage a minor war. And what were they going to do with that much rope?

His hands full, Clark tapped on the door with his toe, the slow swing of the panel making redundant Connor's shout of, "It's open." He pushed his way into the room and set the bags down beside the bathroom door. Connor was seated on the bed, the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder while he lit a cigarette. Clark wondered briefly where Murphy had gone until he noticed the sound of running water coming from the bathroom.

"I said we're coming back, Da. You don't have to go through all of this again." Connor took the receiver in his hand, moving it away from his ear. Then he took a deep drag on the cigarette before straightening his back and speaking again. "Three days. You can yell at us in person in three days, Da–" His shoulders slumped and he rolled his eyes at Clark. "Yes, Da. Yes, Da. I know. Yes, sir. I'll tell him. Bye."

"Your father," Clark said as approached the bed and tossed the keys onto it beside Connor.

Connor nodded. "We haven't seen him for over twenty years. Sometimes I think he's trying to make up for it, other times I think he's just being a dick. Take your coat off, man. As much as I enjoy a whiskey or two, it doesn't make a good cologne."

Clark shrugged out of his jacket, catching a whiff of the scent as he did. Even with the airing it got on the ride over, it was still saturated by the dousing Murphy had given him. Spreading it over the back of a chair, Clark tried to steer the conversation back to the enlightening phone call. "Yet you're still going home?"

"There's this whole family tradition, destiny thing going on that you wouldn't understand."

"You'd be surprised." Connor's gaze sharpened, and Clark felt himself shiver even as he could feel the blood rise in his face. "I mean, every one has to deal with parental expectations."

"I think it might even be harder when you have the same goal they do, but simply want to find your own way. With different visions, at least there is the simplicity of direct disagreement."

Clark's hand was on his chest before he realized he had moved, the ridges under his palm and fingertips confirming the latest casualty in his own familial battle. "I don't think it's ever simple."

"Maybe not," Connor said as he swung his feet up onto the bed, piling up the pillows between his back and the headboard. "Which is why you don't need to go looking for extra complications."

The warning made Clark smile. He didn't think that Connor realized how reluctant it had sounded, just like Lex every time he got the idea in his head that Clark would be better off not having him as a friend. Clark recognized the unspoken plea in those warnings, just as he heard the other things that Lex had left unsaid. But unlike the appeals to continue their friendship, Clark had chosen to ignore the other silent messages, afraid that he might have been simply hearing his own desires. Now there were only echoes of missed opportunities, he wasn't about to add another one. "I'll be back with some ice," he said and picked up the wastepaper basket. He was still smiling as he looked back over his shoulder while opening the door. "I don't have much to worry about, you two are the simplest things I've run across in a long time."

Clark could hear the laughter in the insults that followed him out of the room.

Finding the ice machine at the base of the stairs, he left the plastic bucket there and in 17.4 seconds was half a block from a liquor store he had noticed on the way to the motel. It was on the edge of the neighbourhood around the bar and Clark thought it would be his best bet at finding a place that wouldn't ask unnecessary questions. A darkened store front threw back his reflection and Clark startled as he noticed it. Catching all of the diffuse light between street lamps, his white shirt stood out like a beacon. So did the blood spotting his cuffs. He rolled up the sleeves while he walked, trying to remember the feelings of confidence – arrogance – that he had been revelling in for the past couple of weeks while reminding himself that charm would go much further than attitude in this case. He had once had the regular opportunity to watch a master of both at work.

He walked into the store as if he owned the place, but made sure to nod at the woman behind the counter. Hide in plain sight, he was an expert at that. The beer cooler in the back had the usual selection and, surprisingly, a few imports. It wouldn't do to worry about a couple of dollars in this situation so he picked up a pack of green cans.

As the cashier rose from her chair and put down her book, Clark set the beer gently on the counter. Her fingers started an automatic tapping on the register but then she paused, narrowed her eyes at him, and sniffed.

"She didn't appreciate my sense of humour," he told her with a wry smile and he ran his hand through his hair, shaking his fingers out as if the alcohol hadn't been dried during the ride and the run.

The sound of his clear speech seemed to placate her, and her eyes made a quick sweep of him before returning to the cash register. "Women who drink scotch rarely _have_ a sense of humour."

"So what do you drink?" Clark asked as he leaned his elbows on the cans and held out a twenty with his fingertips.

"Gin," she said with a grin and handed him his change.

Clark stuffed the money into his pockets and picked up the beer. "I'll remember that," he said with a wink as he pushed the door open with his back.

He retraced his steps down the block, not quite believing that he had just pulled that off. And flirted on top of it. The good mood quickened his steps and he made it back to the motel in 16.7 seconds. Standing by the ice machine again, he realized he'd have to kill some time. There was no way that he would be able to get beer even from the convenience store down the street in under five minutes. That thought would easily have been brushed aside an hour ago. So would have the doubts he was wrestling with regarding the two brothers. They were giving him everything he needed right now: a friendly ear, a casual, comforting touch, no demands, and most of all, real company. He had felt so horribly alone in the moments when his self-created illusion of irresponsibility had slipped. That should have been a hint that the red kryptonite wasn't working, because he didn't remember ever having a moment of regret or despair when it was.

A door opened on the lower level, bringing Clark out of his brooding. He filled up the waste basket with ice, sat the beer on top, and headed back upstairs. His knock wasn't answered with a friendly shout this time but with cold blue eyes peering through a carefully cracked door. They warmed instantly and as Murph stepped back opening the door as he went, Clark saw that a version of a smile surrounded the cigarette in Murphy's mouth. Approving sounds were added as Murphy caught sight of the cans and he gripped Clark's jaw and neck with one hand. It wasn't exactly a slap, more of a push, and distinctly a gesture of affection.

"You're staying for one, right?" Murph asked as he took the ice out of Clark's hands and placed it on the dresser. Clark didn't answer but trailed along behind, keeping his eyes on Murphy's bare feet. He was having trouble raising his gaze knowing what he would see: nothing he hadn't seen in the locker room, on the basketball court in summer, in the mirror, and yet he had never noticed how jeans seemed to threaten to slip over hips when the top button was undone. How the skin just under the ribs looked so soft. How the simplest movement made chest muscles shift. How the sight of a cigarette between curved lips could make him envious. As Clark tried to get his overactive imagination under control, Murphy filled up the smaller ice bucket, took the towel from around his neck, spread it over the top, and pushed it down to create a hollow. He rested his right hand in it, wincing a bit as he did so.

Clark knew he was staring openly now. He was peripherally aware of Murph popping open a can with his uninjured hand, but Clark couldn't look away -- four purple lines matching the length of his fingers coloured the right side of Murphy's neck, a shorter but broader smear marred the tattoo on the left.

"Clark?"

He heard the concern but ignored it as easily as the frown. Instead he lifted his fingers to the arch of muscle above Murphy's collarbone and gently, reverently, ran his thumb over the damaged icon. He saw Murph's eyes close, and heard the faint sigh, but it was the touch, the hand clasping his wrist that pushed him over the edge. It wasn't pulling him away or holding him there, it was simply a connection. He refused to let the tears fall.

He glanced at Murphy's face and was surprised when he met the glint of blue eyes. They were almost shut, like a cat that had made itself very comfortable in the sun, but there was no doubt that they were watching him and Murphy made sure he knew it by meeting his gaze for a long moment. Then the lids dropped completely as Clark lengthened his strokes to a caress along Murphy's jaw. Murph took a step back and the hand that had relinquished his wrist moved to rest on Clark's hip, pulling him two steps forward. He could feel the heat of Murphy's chest through his shirt, taunting him with the remembered touch of that body pressed against him as they walked down the alley. It was odd that Murphy wasn't initiating the contact now... but then again Murph was the one that moved them closer. Chloe was right, Clark thought, he could be a little slow sometimes. He applied the slightest pressure with his fingertips and Murphy practically melted against him, rubbing his cheek along Clark's collarbone until he seemed to find a comfortable spot. The exposed neck was an invitation that even Clark couldn't mistake but as he leaned in he caught sight of something even more interesting.

"Wow," he breathed as he pushed himself away from Murphy. The look Clark saw in the mirror as he circled behind could only be interpreted as "What the fuck!?" making him grin back at Murphy's reflection. The smile stayed as he started his tactile inspection of the amazing tattoo tumbling over Murphy's right shoulder blade. There was no difference in the texture of the skin but the lines of the wings seemed to beg to be traced. Or tasted. Murphy's head bowed and Clark could see in the mirror that his eyes were closed again. He seemed completely relaxed, almost meditative, so Clark reached around to place a supporting hand on Murphy's stomach to balance the pressure of his fingers, and when he leaned down, his tongue. There was a flutter in the tensing muscles under his palm and fingers slid into the spaces between his. Murphy's palm pressed firmly against the back of his hand as he moved his attention from the decorated skin toward the fringe of still damp hair.

Under his hand, the rhythmic rise and fall paused and the flesh under Clark's mouth shifted. A glance in the mirror didn't show him anything so Clark raised his head to follow Murphy's line of sight. Connor was leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom doorway. Watching.

"He brought beer," Murphy said softly.

"So I see."

Connor's voice was as smooth as Murphy's for once and his stillness surprisingly mesmerizing. Clark became keenly aware of the fact that all Connor wore was a towel. Slightly slimmer than his brother, his skin had a sun burnished look that continued into his dark blond hair making him seem–

"Beautiful, ain't he?" Murphy leaned back to whisper in Clark's ear.

Suddenly shy of his thoughts at the moment and the situation in general, Clark stepped away, well out of range of any chance physical contact. Murphy smirked at him with narrowed eyes as he reclaimed his smouldering cigarette, then took it, his beer, and the ice bucket to the bed. He took his time arranging the pillows and setting up the bedside table within easy reach of his right hand, watching Clark during the whole procedure. As he stretched out on the mattress, his hand resting back in the ice, Murphy sent a glare at his brother. "You'd better not be tempted to hit me with that damp towel, Connor, or Clark might burst into flames."

Clark didn't need the mirror to know that the blush increased on cue, but ironic amusement tempered the embarrassment – Murphy didn't know how right he was. For some reason it was sinking in only now that there were two of them here, brothers yet. This was becoming more than a little kinky... so thought the alien teenager on the run from the ghost of the space ship possessed by his dead father. Clark laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. His life hadn't been anywhere approaching normal for the past two years, why should this be any different?

While Connor lit his after shower cigarette, Clark moved in close, keeping his back to Murphy, making sure that the hand that went to the folded edge of Connor's towel was kept out of sight. "I'm very tempted," Clark said quietly. Connor's eyebrows shot toward his hairline, the corners of his mouth rising as well. Clark tugged at the towel. "Mind if I borrow this?"

"Be my guest." The brogue was back and so was the slight rasp, reminding Clark of crystalized honey. He let himself fall into Connor's eyes for a long moment, considering what else he might be free to use. But his new-found boldness hadn't built up enough stamina to last more than a few minutes, and anyway, there was retribution due to be meted out.

He turned and flicked the damp cloth at the smug smart ass on the bed. The aim was for Murphy's hip but Clark was still a little distracted and instead caught the bare flesh just above Murphy's waist band. Murph yelped, his beer can rolling to the floor. "You're lucky that was empty, Kent! Or you would have found out how much I'd held back in that alley."

Surprisingly, the reminder didn't chill his blood--maybe it was the smiling challenge in Murphy's eyes keeping it heated. Regardless, Clark couldn't let the comment go unanswered so he sent out the corner of the towel again. This time Murphy grabbed it, pulling Clark off balance and onto the bed. Even through the wet cotton being wrapped around his head and over his own half-hearted protests, he could hear Murphy's laughter. It was a beautiful, free sound, no hint of mockery or irony or regret. Clark couldn't remember the last time he had heard laughter like that and extended the skirmish as long as he could. A strategically placed finger here, a strong exhalation there, and Clark kept Murphy laughing and shivering at the most interesting times. In the end, there was no reason for him to end up on the bottom of this tussle, but it was well worth giving up that very small piece of pride to peel away the towel and see Murphy beaming down at him.

A muttered curse from across the room ended the moment. "What the fuck have you done with my pants?"

Murphy's grin flashed a little wider just before he answered his brother, "They're right where you left them. It's not my fault that you were too fuckin' distracted to remember where you stripped down."

Before Murphy settled back against the headboard, Clark stole one of the pillows from the pile and watched the search as he propped himself up on the other side of the bed. It was his bad luck that the room was too small to hide much of anything for very long, giving him too little time to admire the expanse of skin on view, too much of it disappearing as Connor pulled on his jeans. "You're missing a tattoo," Clark noticed.

Connor looked over his shoulder, down the left side of his back, and then shrugged. "Couldn't afford it. Murph had...an inside track with the artist." Clark needed only a quick glance to discern Murphy's very self-satisfied grin. "And anyway," Connor continued, "I wouldn't have let her sign her work." A second, longer look confirmed the name written on Murphy's chest, distracting Clark just enough for him to be startled by the roar of, "Boots off the bed!"

He had one set of laces loosened before he noticed Murphy choking with laughter. "Try for his pants next, Connor," Murph said between wheezes.

Clark caught himself before he countered with, "Yours first," for he had little doubt that Murphy would call his bluff on that one. He settled for a glare and the exaggerated thump of the boots falling from a height which he knew would have the effect of restarting the snickers. But that was the point, and for once he was enjoying being the butt of the joke. It was done with such.... Love seemed like an overstatement with regard to people he had known for only hours, but that was the only word that came to mind. The brothers seemed the type that if they liked you they'd torture you, if they didn't they'd just shoot you. Clark remembered the contents of the bags and wondered exactly how accurate the analogy was.

"Keep your own on, Murph," Connor said as he opened a beer for himself and took a long sip while he walked over to the bed. "Although I do agree that our friend is a tad overdressed." He straightened Clark's collar with a playful tug.

Clark flinched, and Connor frowned his concern. Before either brother could say anything that would make him feel more in over his head than he knew he already was, Clark shook off the trepidation. Just like the confidences made during the conversation against the car, Clark found himself wanting to share this. At least a version of the story. He opened a button in the shirt, enough so that the top of the scar was visible. He heard a sharp hiss beside him, but it was Connor who reached for the next button. Clark let himself be undressed as he focussed on the handsome face above him, the expression on which was growing darker with each revealed section of skin. When the shirt was completely undone and spread wide, Connor stood straight.

"This wasn't voluntary, was it?" Connor spat out, his voice harsh and his accent thick, and Clark realized that he had yet to see Connor McManus truly angry.

"No. It was a gift from my father. Not my dad," Clark added quickly, "my biological father. He showed up recently to inform me of my purpose in life."

"A family tradition?"

"More like a destiny." The recognition in Connor's eyes gave Clark the courage to continue. "This was to remind me that no matter how far I run, no matter how hard I try, I will never escape it."

"A true destiny does not need torture to make itself felt." Connor was pacing now; his body, his hands searching for a way to release the barely contained fury. "'Twas man who did this, not Fate. And there are ways of _dealing_ with such men."

The vehemence in Connor's words made Clark shiver. He had no need to fear people physically, but Connor seemed to have a force behind him that Clark thought, uneasily, may rival his own. This was a power that was both glorious and terrible, one that was difficult to watch and impossible to turn away from. Could this be how people would see him as well?

Needing some consolation, Clark looked toward the only thing that could draw him away: Murphy. He had rolled onto his side, all Clark could see was his profile as he studied the markings on Clark's chest. In contrast to Connor's kinetic rage, Murphy seemed like a statue, one of those preternaturally serene depictions of angels or saints. He reached out deliberately and traced the far edge of the pattern with his fingertips. Clark gasped.

"Does it still hurt?" Connor asked as concern broke through the anger and he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Clark shook his head. "Cold fingers."

The statue moved, looked up at him with eyes that were far from serene or saintly, and said, "You think so? Connor?"

The sudden reach for Connor's chest had Connor sprawled out on the floor in his hurry to get away. "Bastard," he muttered.

Murphy chose that moment to drag his tongue up the curve filling the middle of the outlined diamond, making Clark shudder. And pant. And get very hard, very fast.

"Now that was interesting," Connor mused from his convenient vantage point. He no longer sounded as if vengeance were the only thing on his mind.

Murphy's blue eyes grinned at Clark as he licked back down the other side of the arcs, this time going all the way down to the point at the base of Clark's breast bone. He paused there tonguing and sucking at the scar while sliding open the fastenings of Clark's jeans. It was both a relief and new torture, for restraining pressure had given way to the opportunity for friction as the teasing finger Murphy slid along the thin cotton proved.

Clark closed his eyes in chagrin at the sound of his own needy moan, but it didn't stop his hand from sliding firmly up Murphy's arm, pausing for a moment to circle the too smooth patch of skin between elbow and shoulder, and then continued into Murphy's hair with subtle pressure applied in the direction Clark wanted him to go. Murph didn't take the hint but started back around the scar again, this time nips and kisses interspersed with the licks. Clark wondered if he might have pushed too far but the sensation of fingers on his waistband informed him he simply had not considered all of the options. He looked down the bed to find a question in Connor's eyes and he answered it in kind. Then all he could do was groan again while lifting his hips – Murphy had just dragged his teeth over Clark's nipple.

Sudden stillness under his hand made Clark realize how tight his grip was in Murphy's hair. God, it was going to be hard to control himself with so many distractions. He immediately let go, running his hand lightly over the dark head by way of an apology. It was accepted with a distracted nuzzle for Murphy seemed to have found something that interested him more than the pattern on Clark's chest. "You are going to share, aren't you, Connor?" he asked with a hint of menace.

"Don't see why I should?" Connor said defiantly as he pulled off Clark's socks along with the jeans.

Clark suddenly felt as if he were being argued over like a new Christmas toy – and he didn't mind in the slightest. Especially watching the smile that was growing on Connor's face as he stared down his brother. Clark didn't need to see Murphy's face to know that it wore an answering grin, he could hear it in Murphy's voice. "Race ya."

And they were off. Murphy starting from Clark's right shoulder, Connor from his left foot--hot mouth, sharp teeth, wet tongue dragging over his skin as the brothers raced their way toward the centre. But it wasn't as much a contest as it was a dance. Each one mirroring the other in pace and design, their fingers adding to the torture, creating Celtic knots of sensation in the wake of their winding paths. When they passed by what Clark had assumed was their goal, Clark whimpered and gripped the blankets with both fists. He was so hard he was sure blood was seeping through the skin of his cock. Reaching his limit, he raised himself up onto his elbows, fully prepared to berate, whine, beg, whatever it took to get these demons to touch him.

Then he lost the breath for pleas. It was the sexiest thing he had ever seen, felt, knew was even possible. He was in the middle of a kiss, caught between lips and tongues that seemed to be reaching for each other as they surrounded him, lavishing on him all of the attention they should have been giving each other while they worked their way up the length of his cock. When they neared the tip, Clark expected to be forgotten with the barrier finally removed, but Murphy gave way, rising up on his knees to strip off his own jeans. Clark only saw the intention, falling back onto the bed--eyes closed, back arched–as Connor swallowed him. "Jesus. Fucking. Christ," Clark moaned. Somebody had to say it, and Connor's mouth was busy.

"Blasphemy," Murphy snickered softly in his ear. "We'll have to add onto your penance."

It seemed a far too severe punishment when Connor moved away, at least until another warmth settled against his body. Murphy had managed to remove his jeans, the firm cock pressing into Clark's hip made that perfectly clear. As did the slide of bare thigh over and along his own. Clark kept his eyes closed, wondering at the small sensations that he found so arousing: tops of toes brushing the sole of his foot, fingertips tucked barely between his back and the mattress, the heart beat he was feeling from the other side of his chest. The passive contact relaxed him enough to let his instincts take some control of his actions again and the brush of his fingertips over the curve of Murphy's ass surprised him into opening his eyes to meet Murph's. The stare was held for a few moments until Clark firmed his touch along Murphy's spine and Murphy's gaze began to wander over Clark's face. As enamoured as Clark was with the sensation of skin sliding under his hand it took him a while to notice that Murphy's focus had settled. It was a good thing that Murphy was pressed against him for Clark was certain that his heart would have escaped his rib cage with the realization that he was about to be kissed.

Murph tasted of cigarettes and beer, a combination Clark expected to be disgusting, but when delivered with the warm press of lips and the hot swipe of tongue he couldn't get enough. He lifted his hand to Murphy's head, sliding his fingers through the short hair until he found just the right spot to prevent escape while he attempted to devour the tease. Murphy seemed to have had his fill of playing as well and met the kiss with equal ferocity, a small snarl vibrating in the back of his throat. He pushed himself up on his hands for better leverage and Clark would have despaired the loss of so much flesh, if he hadn't felt Connor settling over his thigh, a knee pressed snug up against his balls and Connor's own erection resting heavy on his hip.

"Oh Christ, Connor!" Murphy pulled away long enough to spit out the curse then did an admirable job of distracting Clark again.

"Do you want me to stop?" There was a small whimper from Murph, a shift of his knees on the bed and a breath of a chuckle from Connor at the answer to his question. Whatever he was doing, Murphy was passing all of the pleasure on to Clark. He never knew what was coming next – the brush of tongue over his palate, the sting of teeth on his lip, the low hum that sent sparks straight to his cock – and whenever he made an aggressive move himself, Murphy always gave way, welcomed him, until there was an opportunity to begin another onslaught. Clark had never kissed like this, as if it were as much a mental engagement as a physical one. He felt as if he could do it for hours. The awareness of Connor shifting way from them disturbed the pattern of the duel and they both whined in protest.

Murphy broke away completely from the kiss. He rested his forehead on Clark's chest but his face was angled to look at his brother. Connor was now standing beside the bed, the damp towel in his hands. Clark had the feeling they were waiting for him to do something and that he had again missed pages of silent dialogue. He looked at Connor, begging for a translation.

"You're going to have to ask him, Murph."

"Fuck." The heartfelt curse came from the face pressed into his chest, Murphy was running his lips over the scars again.

Connor smiled with a fondness that Clark knew was uniquely for his brother. "You are supposed to be making a request, not giving orders."

Clark thought that he might be catching on. He pressed the heel of his palm firmly against Murph's cock as he cupped his hand around the delicate sac and slid his fingertips over the skin behind. When they slipped against extra slickness, Murphy bit him. Clark debated a short moment. They already knew that he was...different, Murphy's bruised hand was more than testament to that, it couldn't hurt to use his strength just a little. Clark sat up, moving the hand between Murphy's legs almost to the tail bone and catching him behind the shoulders with the other. It was a simple matter to pivot them both so that Murph ended up flat on his back on the bed with Clark kneeling between his thighs, the hard part had been not doing it too fast. Murphy's bewilderment gave him a clue that it still might have been faster than it should, but the sight of lips parted in surprise was so appealing that Clark couldn't bring himself to regret it. He decided to take his time reaching those lips, starting at the hollow at the base of the breastbone and licking his way up.

"Fuck me!" Murph breathed so softly that if Clark hadn't been so close he would have missed it.

"Right words," Clark said against Murph's neck, "but you're still having trouble with the asking part."

A sudden grip on his hair lifted his head to look into wild eyes. "Please?" Murphy forced out between panted breaths. The combination of anger and desperation and passion was far too familiar. Clark kissed him this time, a punishment for bringing back a flood of empty dreams that he didn't want right now. The tang of blood startled him back to himself but Murphy's two-handed grip on his head wouldn't let him go. The shift in violence in the kiss left him a little light headed, especially when accompanied by the sensation of feet sliding up his thighs and hands sliding around his hips.

Connor. Knowing that Connor was taking care of them both let Clark relax into the invoking passion and the guiding hands. He stopped thinking about what he was doing and focussed on the feelings. Connor's hands shifting him, nudging him, stroking him were as intoxicating as Murphy's tongue, but they had a purpose and Clark followed their lead with complete trust. Not until pressure on the small of his back urged him forward, did Clark realize that they had reached the point of no return, gone well past it in fact as he moved with surprising ease into Murphy's body. He wrenched himself away from the kiss, resting his head on Murph's chest while he tried desperately to reweave the threads of his control. The heat surrounding his cock lit a fuse; fire travelled up his spine, spread though his bones, over his skull, settled in his pelvis....

"Fuck, Clark, don't stop now!" Murphy whined.

"I'm not made of steel," Clark snarled back, raising his head. "And I'm seventeen. Either I stop now or it's over completely."

Murph's mocking grin made him want to quit anyway, but only for the instant before he realized that the overwhelming heat had dissipated in the anger. Now that he was back in control it was time for revenge, one so very sweet as Murphy's eyes widened while Clark pulled back slowly, and then closed with the smooth, quick thrust that buried his cock deep. He stopped again, and Murphy didn't seem to mind this time, his breath coming in short pants. In the stillness, Clark felt Connor behind him, kissing his way up Clark's spine, running his hands down Murph's legs and along his flank. It didn't take long for Murphy to get restless again, his own hands starting to wander, one up Clark's braced arm to his shoulder, the other finding Connor's hand. He braced his feet on Clark's thighs and Clark spread his knees to make the purchase easier. That also spread other flesh and Connor's cock that had been resting along the crevice now brushed against more sensitive skin. Both of them gasped and Clark bucked forward a little moving even deeper into Murphy, evoking a deep moan. Afraid he had hurt Murph, Clark pulled back but the hand on his shoulder pulled him forward again. Oh, that was good.

He closed his eyes, so completely focussed on the sensations coming from his cock as he rocked into Murphy that he briefly forgot about the rest of his body. His awareness returned with the slide of Connor's slick cock between his ass cheeks, making teasing brushes over his hole. Connor's hand had moved to Clark's chest and toyed with a nipple while another hand stroked his ribs from a completely different angle. He was being bitten and licked and kissed from his neck to shoulder and back again. Feeling himself rude to be so caught up in his own pleasure, Clark opened his eyes to find Murphy's heavy lidded gaze fixed over his shoulder. This time he understood the message being sent between the pairs of blue eyes, and froze under the weight of the realization.

"Something wrong?" Connor whispered in Clark's ear.

Murphy's heels slid behind his back and the look in Murphy's eyes nudged him in the direction of his thoughts. Clark gripped Murph's hips as he sat up and the smile that flashed across Murphy's face confirmed the message–neither of them was willing to relinquish one pleasure even for another. "Yes," Clark said, slipping his hand behind Connor's neck to pull him close. "Something's missing." How could he have waited so long to kiss this man?

Kissing Murphy was like being struck by lightning--bright and thrilling and leaving him tingling under his skin. Kissing Connor was like walking into the sun--warm at first, comforting, until he realized he was no longer solid but as pliable as warm wax in Connor's hands. And then the flames started, the only way to control them was to get closer, but Connor pulled back carefully. In his eyes, Clark could again see a question, this one requiring a clear answer. "Please," Clark said, thankful that it came out stronger than a whisper. But before Connor could move away, Clark strengthened his hold on Connor's neck and pulled him in to finish the kiss. Connor wouldn't give way, as hard as Clark pushed, Connor always pushed back. Clark gave himself up completely to it, his whole body moving in rhythm with the thorough fucking they were giving each others mouths.

They broke apart at a strangled groan from Murphy. "Connor, you'd better hurry the fuck up." Clark looked down to see that Murph had his head pressed hard into the pillow, his eyes screwed shut, and a vicious grip on his balls.

Clark could feel Connor smile as he rested his head on Clark's shoulder. "Think of Aunt Adel first thing in the morning."

"I needed to back off not go completely soft, you prick."

"You're most welcome," Connor replied but he sounded distracted. Clark certainly was. He was panicking–just a little--for even the first shallow intrusion of a slick finger made it vividly clear what he had just suggested. He knew nothing was really going to hurt him, but still.... Fingertips caressing his face brought him back to the moment and Murphy's concerned expression.

"You don't have to do this."

Clark shook his head, the fear gone. "I want to do this right. Without Connor, it won't be right." Murphy coaxed him up off of his heels and into a kiss that was very different from the previous ones. It was tender, almost chaste, and was echoed on the back of his bowed neck. Then it wasn't, as teeth skimmed the skin over his spine and Murphy moved his feet up again, drawing Clark's cock back inside him while trying to suck Clark's tongue out of his mouth. Murphy's determined distraction and his own imperviousness to pain made Connor's thorough preparations an exercise in erotic torture. The impulse to offer himself as a conduit between the two brothers started out as some weird sort of fate-driven spiritual fulfilment, but was rapidly becoming a purely lust-filled physical one. So by the time Clark felt the far more substantial but equally careful press of Connor's cock into him, he had reached the end of his patience.

"You're not going to hurt me, you know," he snapped, looking over his shoulder.

The flicker of surprise he saw from the corner of his eye blended quickly with amusement. "It's not you I'm worried about," said Connor as he took a firmer grip on Clark's hips and pushed, and Clark, caught between trying to brace against the pressure and yielding to the intrusion, ended up sinking deeply into Murphy. The slow motion fall culminated with Murph taking a deep breath, his neck arching off the bed and Connor giving a low groan as his forehead rested on Clark's back.

He had to move. Now. And he was strong enough to do it without cooperation. Murphy's eyes snapped back open with his first thrust and with the second, Connor braced himself more firmly on the bed. They rode him like a pair of jockeys: Murphy with foot and thigh, Connor with his hands running over Clark's hip and flank. Both of them letting Clark set the pace, until he found rhythm being lost in the urge to pound mindlessly. It wasn't helped by Murph writhing under him, arching and gasping, but Connor wrapped an arm around his waist, bringing the three of them closer, the thrusts forced into becoming shallower. A cry from Murph brought Clark's attention to the bigger picture. Connor's arm was still close but his hand had left Clark's belly. Then Clark felt it, the surge of connection like the completion of a circuit and the energy rushed though him.

Clark just managed to brace himself so as not to interfere with the hand helping to bring Murphy to release, and he continued to rock until he felt the contractions around his cock. It sent shocks along his hypersensitive nerves, making him shudder along with the man under him. So did the increasingly ragged strokes within him, the only reason Connor was hanging onto his thin control was concern for his brother. Pulling out of Murphy, Clark solidified his stance and relayed his awareness in a glance over his shoulder to Connor, who took Clark at his word and pounded into him with a handful of vicious strokes before sinking, panting, against his back.

Murphy pulled on his shoulders and Clark took the hint, not resting his full weight but getting ample contact with damp, in some places sticky, skin. He turned his face toward Murphy's shoulder as he lay his head on Murph's chest. When he felt Connor move out of him and shift up enough to look over his shoulder, he knew why he had done that. He felt the brush against his hair as Murphy raised his head, and expected to hear a kiss but didn't, only their breathing so close they had to be sharing air. Then he saw the two hands with two words intertwined, and realised he would never be able to think of one without the other.

 

*****

Murphy woke up smiling. Not with his expression, not grinning, but a smile that he could feel through his whole body. It always felt this way to wake up in Connor's arms. It had the sweetness of a childhood sense memory--damp grass, biscuits straight from the oven, Connor in the morning. A memory was what it was most of the time, ever since the possibility of waking with a morning erection pressed against his brother's flesh had become an issue and they insisted on separate beds. Ma hadn't been at all sympathetic to the initial request and it was the only time Murphy had ever seen Connor lose his temper with her. There were two beds in their room by nightfall. The memory had become reality more often since they had received the calling, maybe it was because they were being forced to share a bed more often. Maybe this small comfort simply bothered Murphy less now. Something that felt this right shouldn't be a sin, it was as if their souls looked for each other as their bodies slept.

He snuggled a little further into the curve of Connor's neck. The sound of running water stopped, its absence bringing it to Murphy's attention. Connor sighed. They were going to have company soon. They didn't have to move, they could pretend to sleep, feigned innocence but a forgivable lie. The bathroom door opened, letting some of the heat and steam into the room, and Connor shifted. Lips against his neck prompted Murphy to turn his own kiss to the image on the skin recently warmed by his breath.

Mother of God, pray for us sinners.

As Connor swung his feet over the side of the bed, Murph rolled onto his back. He stretched from fingertips to toes and then opened his eyes to a sight that brought the smile to the surface. "Sneaking out without saying good bye, Clark? What would your mother say?" Oh yes, the blush on the face that emerged from the neck of the borrowed t-shirt made up nicely for the other deprivation.

Connor shot a wry glance at Murphy and then looked over his other shoulder at Clark. "I guess it's too late to warn you that he's a remarkably evil bastard first thing in the morning. Jesus!" he cursed softly as he rose to his feet.

"Fuck! Don't you fuckin' dare say you're sorry," Murphy warned Clark. Vivid bruises had come up on Connor's back during the night and Murphy could see the guilt coming off the boy in waves. You'd think the lad was Catholic.

Clark sent him a narrowed-eyed glare and, as Connor rounded the end of the bed, stepped into his path. "Fine. I won't say it," Clark said as Connor looked up at him in sleepy confusion. Clark took Connor's face in his hands and kissed him. Murphy thought that it might have been intended as something quick and simple, but Connor sank against Clark and into the kiss. It became a lazier version of the show Murphy had been witness to last night. His reaction was the same, the inability to look away from Clark and Connor immersing themselves in the sensuality of their own strength. Without the force, this play of muscles was smooth and fluid and Murph could hear the soft noises Connor made now that the sound of his own blood rushing past his ears wasn't drowning it out. This kiss broke up without Murphy's interference, and Connor continued on his way to the bathroom.

"He's a quick learner, is our Clark," Connor commented before closing the door.

"Aye," Murphy chuckled as Clark smirked, but his amusement turned to concern far too quickly and prompted another warning. "If you ask me how I am, I'll have to hit you. I'm well fucked, that should say it all." Fucked in more ways than one, his body reminded him as he reached for his smokes, but Murphy adored Clark's blush and shy smile, and so wasn't about to spoil it.

He took a quick look around for his lighter. It was likely still in his jeans, and where those were was anybody's guess. With his usual sense of good timing, Connor emerged from the bathroom. Clark's blush deepened slightly as his gaze swept over Connor and Murphy felt an unfamiliar churning in his gut. He wasn't sure what caused it, but he was certain he didn't want there to be another encounter that left him as observer. "Connor?" he called, gesturing with the unlit cigarette.

Connor tossed the lighter from his own pants onto the bed, followed closely by the TV remote. "How about turning on the news as well? See if we made the morning edition."

"In Metropolis?" Clark said turning toward the TV as the screen came alive. "A bar fight wouldn't be worth–" Clark's commentary stopped abruptly and he sat heavily on the end of the bed. Connor quickly zipped up and came around to see what had caused the reaction. Murphy turned up the sound as he sat up off the pillows.

"Lex Luthor, son of Lionel Luthor, has been found. The former CEO of Lexcorp--now a Luthorcorp subsidiary--had been presumed dead after the Luthorcorp jet carrying him and his new bride crashed into the Atlantic. The couple were on their way to their honeymoon retreat after a private ceremony in Luthor's current residence of Smallville. Early reports indicate that Luthor suffered no severe injuries..."

"He's alive." Clark's voice was strangely flat. Murphy crawled to the end of the bed and put his hand on Clark's shoulder. Clark turned, tears in his eyes. "He's alive."

"You know this Luthor then?"

"Lex," said Clark in a tone that made Connor raise an eyebrow at Murphy over Clark's head. "He's my friend. I was supposed to be the best man at his wedding, but I was delayed." Clark's hand went to his chest providing all the explanation necessary. "He always said he thought of me as a brother."

"And how do you think of him?" Connor asked, half way to belligerent.

Clark glanced quickly between them and then dropped his eyes. In the long silent moment that followed, Murphy found that his brother was avoiding his gaze as well, a faint flush darkening Connor's cheek. True, lately they had hardly set a virtuous example of filial affection.

"I'm starting to think that Lex might have just been protecting me, like a brother would," Clark said without even a hint of irony. "Making sure that nothing came at me that he thought I couldn't handle. Our friendship was based on faith, on a belief that it was meant to be despite the fact we really knew so little about each other. And yet I do know him." Clark broke off and took a deep breath, studying the carpet a while before continuing. "When I thought he was gone it was as if part of me...not so much died but disappeared. It was easier to let the rest of me disappear for a while, too."

"There's a melancholy speech. Hear that, Connor, it looks like there might be some Irish blood flowing through Clark's veins after all." Murphy punctuated the tease with a push at the side of Clark's head, the only real result being Clark's blinding smile turning toward him.

Connor, as usual, wasn't so easily appeased. "Are you sure he's worth that level of devotion? I keep coming back to the old saying about apples."

Clark startled and blinked his eyes as if trying to focus. Then he seemed to collect himself, speaking with a surety that Murphy hadn't heard from him before. "They may not initially fall far, but some of them manage to roll quite a way along their own path."

Connor nodded, then stepped close and placed a kiss on the boy's forehead. He continued across the room without another word and started packing, tossing Murphy's clothes at him in a not so subtle hint.

Murphy would have taken it except that Clark had taken possession of Murphy's hand and was now running his thumb over the ink embedded in the skin along the right forefinger. "Aequitas. Veritas. I needed to be reminded of how important they are and how necessary they are to each other." He sent a pointed look at Connor before turning back to Murphy. "It's not a lesson I will forget again."

Clark bowed his head as Murphy leaned forward. "I'm not that noble," Murphy said as he ran his fingers along Clark's jaw, lifting Clark's chin. The kiss was simple but so very sweet. Yet for some strange reason, Murphy's eyes flew open to look straight into Connor's. He found a look there that he recognized, it conveyed the same unease that he had felt earlier. Fear. Possessiveness. Guilt. And something that remained just beyond Murphy's grasp and evaporated as Clark broke the kiss.

"It's really weird that I don't hate it when you do that."

Oh shit, what did he do?! "Do what?"

"Be with me in body but with Connor in spirit."

The words hung solid in the air until Connor's flash of a grin dispersed them like so much fog. All of the tension Murph had been holding melted away along with the elusive feeling whose meaning he had caught in its last moment of existence. They were good. Clark was amazing. And they still had the room for another three hours.

A well aimed t-shirt made sure that Murphy only felt Clark rise from the bed and only heard the grin as he said, "I need to go–"

The TV caught all of their attention again with the chime of another news flash breaking into the regular programming. "The expectation that Lex Luthor would return to Metropolis after his ordeal has been refuted. A brief news release simply states that the he will be convalescing in a private residence well away from his home city. It assures interested well wishers that he will be well attended but seeks privacy at this trying time. This is a direct contradiction to the statement Lionel Luthor made less than an hour ago expressing fatherly concern and a desire to oversee the recovery of his son and heir with the best medical care Metropolis General had to offer."

"He hates that," Clark said as he turned off the TV. "Being called Lionel's heir as if that is his most important accomplishment. He is so much more."

"Go home, Clark."

"Kicking me out?"

"Uh-huh," Murphy said standing to pull on his jeans "Can't stand the sight of your ugly mug for another second."

Murphy felt his feet leave the floor as arms wrapped around his torso. But that was not as disturbing as the husky voice whispering in his ear, "I could always do you from behind so that you don't have to see it."

"Don't fucking start!" Connor whapped Clark over the head with the once damp towel. "I only just got him fucking dressed."

Murph's feet returned to the floor as one arm let go, but the other kept him pinned firm against Clark's chest. Not that it was a problem, mind, particularly when Connor was pressed up against his side as well.

"I want the two of you to be careful," Clark said barely above a whisper.

"With us, I don't think it is a matter of being careful. Our work seems to be under the watch of a higher power."

"What about your bar fights?"

"Em. Well...."

"He has a point there, Connor."

"Will you shut the fuck up."

Clark's chuckle was so soft it was mostly air. And then Murphy momentarily lost his breath as the arm around him tightened alarmingly. Fuck, he had forgotten the boy was so strong. It took a couple of second before he regained his equilibrium and by then Clark was at the door. Murphy expected the typical platitude– "Look me up if you're ever in..."–but Clark didn't even flash a smile as he took one last look before pulling the door closed behind him.

The stillness was stunning. It took a long moment before Murphy remembered to breath and as he did, he turned to Connor, who seemed similarly shaken. The feeling didn't last past the instant their gazes met, and Murphy watched the answering grin reach his brother's blue eyes. Connor shoved him just enough to make him move his feet. They gathered the rest of their belongings in silence. Even Connor's wince as he picked up his duffle remained without comment, or even a sigh. It was creepy; Connor was rarely quiet about anything.

It was a comfort then when he was the one that eventually broke the peace with a snicker from around the cigarette he was lighting as Murphy closed the trunk of the car. "We should find a church before we get on the road."

"And you found that thought amusing?" Murphy's heart sank into his gut. "Feeling guilty about last night?"

Connor turned with creases between his eyes which slowly smoothed as he said, "Not really. It's more in relation to my thoughts this morning."

There was a look that Murphy loved to see -- Connor with a plan. So it wasn't that shared sentiment that was bothering him. And, of course, the bastard was going to make Murphy drag it out of him. "It was an eventful morning, man. You're going to have to give me a fucking clue."

"I was considering knocking the lad over the head, tying him up and storing him in the trunk for later."

That was too easy, there had to be a catch. "Good thing your conscience got the better of you. Anyway, I think his head is too hard for you to have had any effect."

"It surely is, and that fact was the only fucking thing that stopped me."

"You're contrite about being unrepentant then?" Murphy laughed.

"Aye, you have it right there." Connor's grin faded as he rested his crossed arms on the roof of the car over the driver's door. "What do you think he is, Murph?"

Murphy toyed with the cigarette in his fingers while he considered the question. "Well, if we can be called saints, could it be that we've been wrestling with an angel?" He lit the smoke while watching a slow smile take over Connor's face.

"If that's the case, then God is truly great."

Murphy smiled around the cigarette as he opened the car door. "Amen to that brother," he said, and slid into the passenger seat.


End file.
